On Boxing Day Alec went out with Captain Douglas for shikar. They brought back two blackbucks, four geese and almost fifty partridges. We sent legs of venison and a brace of partridges to our friends.

We organized a grand feast on New year’s eve. Mr Metcalfe again did us the honour of a short visit. Once more he took me aside and reminded me of my promise to find out what the native women were saying. He sounded very eager about it. I assured him I would get down to the job.

The real fun began after Mr Metcalfe had left. Alec passed out and had to be put to bed. One of the subalterns almost raped me within a yard of where Alec was lying drunk. That stupid, besotted husband of mine kept egging him on, ‘Take the bloody bitch .. go on . . .’ Such was life in Delhi.

After the season’s festivities were over I sent letters of thanks to the wives of the natives who had sent us gifts on Georgina’s birth and the bara din. Some begums came to call and protested that letters were not necessary between members of the same family. (‘I a member of a native family! Really!’) Natives are given to this kind of exaggeration. I was ‘sister’ to everyone. Their children called me mausi. Fawning and flattering you to your face but always ready with a dagger to plunge in your back!

It was some time in the April of 1857. I remember it had turned very, very warm. We had bhishties splashing water on the khas curtains we hung on the doors. No one dared to stir out in the afternoon. Even the nights were unpleasant. We slept on our roof and had a relay of pankhawallas to fan us throughout the night. One day Begum Zeenat Mahal sent us a trayload of watermelons and mangoes from her estate in Talkatora. I gave a handsome tip to the bearers and informed Mr Metcalfe about it. He sent me word that I should join the party of European ladies who had also received baskets of fruit and who were calling on Zeenat Mahal to thank her.

I took my two older girls with me in the phaeton sent by Mr Beresford, the banker. Captain Douglas received us at Lahore Gate. It was a memsahibs’ afternoon. There was old Mrs Flemming, wife of Sergeant Flemming and her daughter, Mrs Scully, and a few others. Captain Douglas passed us on to Basant Ali khan, a fat eunuch who was the head of the harem guard. He escorted us through the Meena Bazaar and endless corridors with rooms on either side occupied by the salateen members of the royal household. A scruffier, smellier lot would be hard to find anywhere in the world. Their quarters were worse than those of my servants; the women were more poorly dressed than my ayahs. We were conducted to the queen’s reception room which overlooked the river.